Conversations
by Windsett
Summary: What Rhomann Dey could be thinking at the end of the film, when the Milano's ready to fly and the Guardians are set to go, and Dey is left standing in the bright sun of a freshly saved world, his blood pumping his uniform gleaming and his thoughts are pounding at what's going to happen to him next.


**Author's Note: Just some thoughts of Dey's at the end of the film, as a result of me watching this film too many times and thinking about it too much. And me wanting to get back into writing but not sure what to write, until I thought about Dey and then thought about what **_**he'd**_** be thinking, and then somehow all of the below was written. As always thank you for taking the time to read anything I write, and thank you for reading this :)**

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><p>'Can't I have a conversation with this gentleman?'<p>

Rhomann Dey has never been called a gentleman before.

He's been called many things by many beings, but never a gentleman and _never_ by an animal.

His superiors have called him dispiriting things and his subordinates encouraging things, and members of the public have criticised him while criminals have praised him. His wife and daughter have called him nice things of course, lovely things; perfect things that are forever embedded within his heart and now thanks to this raccoon they will continue to do so.

Dey knows he isn't a bragging type of man, but if he's truthful – which is the best and only way to be – then he can't help but describe himself as polite, courteous, honest, friendly and always willing to help others.

It's actually a wonder why he's never been called the word before.

Not that Dey _minds_ having never been called it, and it's not as if he's going to let such an omission eat away at him and pick it over again and again. But self-reflection is healthy, that's what the medics and the magazines say, and Dey decides that it won't hurt to remind himself of this word. It wouldn't hurt for _others_ to be reminded of it, if there was a suitable way – or way_s_ – for this to happen and-

Dey blinks and breathes in sharply and makes himself re-focus. He knows that in the grand scheme of things it's not very important at all, and he shouldn't be letting his mind wander. He's got very important work to be doing, despite being exhausted and still half-dazed by everything that's happened since Ronan and the Dark Aster burst into the sky above them. He should be concentrating on his job, and the responsibilities he has in front of him.

And besides, it's not as if anyone _else_ is giving the impression that Dey's description is truly worthy of consideration.

Rocket continues moving after he refers to Dey as a gentleman and doesn't look back, doesn't give any indication that he really _does_ want to have a conversation with him. On one of Dey's hands, the biggest most hand, this is a relief. Dey suspects that any actual conversation between them would end up in a continuous loop, with Rocket acting like he doesn't understand the fundamental pillars of law, his eyes wide open in fake surprise as Dey's tone gets rougher and sharper and those animal eyes begin to shine.

However on the other hand it's sort of a shame that Dey won't actually get to dissect the moralities of law and order with an intelligent creature that has no right to exist, because then it would be another thing to add to his list of Firsts.

But Rocket's just eager to get away, and his use of the word gentleman is just part of him making an obvious effort to prove that he can be civil and law abiding and worthy of not being thrown into prison again. He might be so swelled up with confidence after what he's just done, how he's just helped save the planet and can channel infinite power through his body, but he's still propelled by scratching fears that the Nova Corps will change their mind and lock them all into the Kyln again, despite all the promises that they won't.

Despite the fact that they _can't_, not that Rocket knows this, because the Kyln is still swamped with the bodies of everyone who used to be a prisoner there which is thanks to Ronan, and because most of its systems are still broken and offline, which is thanks to Rocket himself.

Must be old habits Dey concludes, as he watches the group of misfit heroes approach the newly restored Milano.

Dey is standings on the outside platform in the bright Xandarian daylight, with two uniformed nova Corps officers at his side. The female officer, his superior, had retreated back indoors as soon as Quill had promised to keep an eye on them all. She'd turned round quickly, attention focused on the data pad in her hands, but Dey had caught the tense of her lips and the half-roll of her eyes.

Dey's mind has now left the subject of being called a gentleman, and he's now worrying that he's not worrying enough about Quill's confident words of assurance.

The Nova Corps had been almost the perfect hosts to the group for four days after the end of the battle, providing food and shelter and a round the clock surveillance system on them that was for their own protection, nothing more of course. The Technicians had been smug about its discreet advanced effectiveness, and Rocket had hacked it in seconds.

There's a slight scuffle amongst the group, amongst the…Guardians, as they bicker like children about who will board the Milano first. Dey watches Quill stomp on board his ship last, a ridiculous look on his face that reminds Dey of the photo Quill pasted onto his caller ID when he sent his mes-

It's like a slap to Dey's face, quick and sudden, because Dey suddenly realises that non-one ever asked Quill how he managed to send his message of help in the first place. Quill should never have had access to _any_ Nova Corps communication console, much less Dey's personal one.

Dey tenses and jerks his foot forward as if to ground the ship and pull Quill off it but then he stops, mind racing.

The Nova Corps Computer Technicians have probably already been made aware of this security breach, and will plug it soon. Possibly probably not _really_ soon, since there's so much of the city left to clean up and rebuild first. There's too many dead left to honour, and too many families to contact first.

They must be aware of it though and they'll fix it when they get a chance to, of course they will, and Dey won't help things if he butts in and repeats the obvious and delays things and gets in the way.

…and besides, Dey concludes as he finds himself relaxing, it might not be _such_ a bad thing if Quill is able to contact him directly again. Dey nods to himself and clasps his hands behind his back, more confident in his decision. And if he hasn't seen a report that the communications have been reviewed and improved within say…one week, maximum two, then he'll raise the matter himself. Dey considers further, and concludes that he doesn't have a bad gut feeling about this.

And besides, if he _does_ have to raise it with anyone then it's likely that his word will be believed. And then into Dey's mind slides the easy and unbidden acknowledgement that his word has _always_ been believed, when those spoken by others sometimes haven't.

Like Saal's.

One of the Milano's thrusters ignites, and a punch of orange flame obscures the blue of the sky.

Garthan Saal had advised Nova Prime against believing Quill's message, not willing to trust a disrespectful criminal. But he, a Denarian, had been overruled in favour of a lesser ranking Corpsman, and every available Nova Corps pilot had been shot hastily into the sky towards the Dark Aster.

Saal had followed his orders silently, tightly; marching out of the command room with an air of resentment, distrust and hope crackling around him. It wasn't possible for the command room to monitor every pilot's radio but Saal was more than just a pilot, and his words to Quill had been broadcast loudly.

Dey had always suspected that Saal was willing to be proven wrong, and that he was just as keen to accept an offer of help as Nova Prime was. Their leader hadn't raised any objections after Dey had relayed Quill's message which, at the time, Dey thought was because she trusted both him and Quill completely.

But she was Nova Prime, and didn't achieve her position by blindly believing anyone.

Maybe she _knew_ that Saal was going to openly voice objections, and that's what she wanted. After Dey had spoken, Nova Prime had put on a show of considering whether to accept or reject Quill's message, even though she'd already made up her mind the instant Dey had spoken. Some time wasting for an audience that could have been obliterated moments later along with the rest of the planet, but that's politicians for you.

Saal was wrong and Dey was right and everyone knew it and will know it forever and _ARGGH! _

Out of nowhere an invisible spear has pierced him, sudden and swift and it's red and painful ah it's agony it's utter _agony_.

Dey's right hand shoots upwards to clench his upper left chest and he's reeling now, fighting to stay on his feet and not double over the with sudden _pain_ of it. There's tears in his eyes and sparks before them, an iron band squeezing his lungs and a shooting pain within his heart.

Dey panics as silently as he can, because he must be having a heart attack. His heart is giving out on him and he's going to die, he's going to die.

He's going to die in a messy heap on the ground in front of Quill a day after being promoted.

Familiar faces and opportunities lost flash before Dey's eyes, and he feels a light-headed runaway panic that he never experienced when the city was being attacked. Not when he had bolted from his home after receiving Quill's message, rushing so much that he was still fixing his uniform as he was approaching the control room. Not even when he relayed Quill's message and he was certain, _certain_, that he was right and that only he, _he _– not Saal or Nova Prime or anyone else – held the heavy key to salvation in his hand.

Dey bites his tongue to stop from whining, and struggles against the desire to curl up into a ball and close his eyes until it all stops.

Maybe this is payback for not being up in the sky dying like he should have alongside his friends.

Maybe this is his punishment, and is the universe correcting itself and making him pay back his debt for staying safely on the ground and surviving and being proven right. The fact that Dey has never been a pilot in the first place is not important. The fact that he's never been a poster boy hero and has never – will never – belong in their golden ranks is irrelevant.

Sweat is streaming down Dey's neck and pouring downwards now, hot and damp and horrible. Dey doesn't move and doesn't breathe and _certainly_ doesn't think of the inevitable and how you can never cheat justice and that this has been his awful pre-destined fate all along.

Thick seconds tick by.

Only seconds pass but they feel like minutes.

And then, like a tiny light reluctantly appearing from hiding in the gloom, Dey realises that his blinding pain hasn't increased. It hasn't got worse and it hasn't spread, which is what would happen if he actually _was_ crashing down into cardiac arrest.

Funny how he remembers such odd snippets of information in times of stress, Dey randomly thinks to himself. Especially since he barely passed the first aid tests during basic training, which involved awful practical tests as well as the boring written ones. Blood and bone can never compare to the wonders of leaf and stalk, and Dey has always been drawn to green instead of red.

Reassured by the knowledge that he's (probably) not about to face imminent death yet again, Dey finally allows himself to exhale and to breathe again. A few relieved gulps of oxygen and his mind is clear enough to think straight. Well it's clear enough for him to think straight_er_.

Dey really hopes that no-one has seen any of this.

He's never had a reputation as being one of the best; as being crisp and polished and an ideal role model, and an emotional panic attack is one of the last things he needs.

The Milano is slowly moving up and away now; all its thrusters burning, its lights sparkling in sequence and its gun torrents twisting, as the Guardians systematically tests the newly repaired ship.

Dey risks a glance either side of him at the Nova Corps officers standing there and is relieved; they're paying full attention to the ship, and seem to be unaware of all that's just happened to him. Dey wipes a trembling arm across his forehead, and swears with all his heart that he's going to eat better and exercise regularly and go to sleep at a decent time every night, irregular shift patterns be damned.

Another one of the Milano's gun ports opens and turns slowly, carefully, somewhat serenely, glinting in the sun until it's aiming above their heads. Before Dey can start to plan his running route for tomorrow morning, the fearsome gun suddenly locks into position and recoils and opens fire with a roar.

There's a metallic _uppercut_ as the gun gets to work, and a stuttering storm of noise strikes them and eats into the air around them.

One of the officers instinctively throws himself to the ground in a clattering heap, hands held tightly over his head as he wails.

The gun keeps firing blankly, clicks and snaps and screeches as the firing mechanism rotates and reloads and is tested without ammunition.

The other officer is scowling deeply, pointing at the ship with one hand while his other trembles and fumbles for his communicator, no doubt about to scream for back up to have them all arrested again or simply shot straight out of the sky.

Dey shakes his head, wondering why he's not completely surprised. This is really not what he needs right now. Without thinking if the other officers are looking him for guidance, Dey raises his right hand and rubs on his upper left chest. His hand passes over the material of his uniform again and again, and the pain slowly begins to fade.

Enduring pain is one thing, but Dey needs to look the part and to calm down quickly. And so he forces his mind to focus on his breathing and his family and his plants, and certainly _not_ about planet saviours that look like they're going to get their criminal records back before they've even left and how much extra work that will mean for him.

Dey may not be the most popular or charismatic of the Nova Corps but he _is_ one of them. His existing traits were identified by experts and he was accepted into the programme, and he really shouldn't lose sight of that no matter how transitory it may ultimately be. He mustn't lose sight and should instead _focus_.

And focus is what Dey does now. He focuses on the plant that was left abandoned when he received Quill's message, which will get extra water and fertiliser later to make up for it. He focuses on his wife and daughter and his favourite restaurant next to the botanical gardens he wants to take them to, providing that it hasn't already been reduced to a pile of dust and rubble.

He thinks these things and feels better. And once he feels better, he can then finally focuses on the area that's made him panic and hurt in the first place.

Maybe it was a heart attack, maybe it was a panic attack. Maybe it was a bit of both.

But whatever it was hopefully it won't happen again, and that this was just a mild something, not designed to kill him. Just to warm him. To remind him of the fact that he's worked himself to the point of exhaustion over the last few days, and the number of hours sleep he's had doesn't reach past two hands. He's still not fully come to terms with the scale of the destruction wrought on the city, and there's only so much his body can physically take before it needs to rest.

But Dey knows that he could be wrong about having just suffered a mild attack; whether heart or panic or Xanders knows what's just happened to him, Dey _does_ know that mild things are often the forebringer of major things. And…despite knowing this; despite knowing it and accepting immediately that he could just have been forced to take the first step on a dark and shifting path, he doesn't feel light-headed with fear. He feels…well… quite calm actually. Calm and composed. Stoic in the face of a bleak future he doesn't want to investigate, yet utterly prepared to do his duty if needs be.

Looks like he's solid Nova Corps material after all.

Dey allows himself a weak grin, and it's just typical that the finger pointing officer chooses that moment to look at him.

Dey wipes his face blank immediately and, before the officer can scowl and shout further, Dey orders him not to call for back up and _not_ to report what the Milano's just done. There's been no harm done and does he _really_ want to spend the better part of a day writing and presenting a report to senior officers? Does he really want to waste his time? Does he really want to waste the time of _others _right at this moment when there are so many other pressing matters to attend to_? _

The scowling officer scowls deeper but complies with his orders. At Dey's further instance the officer then helps his colleague up from the ground and they both head indoors, to grab some drinks and food and to definitely not talk to anyone.

Dey rubs his hand over his chest again and raises his head skywards, now that the gun is quiet and he's no longer being fake fired at.

The Milano dips its wings in salute to him, and Dey makes a face that his scowling colleague would approve of.

Quill lifts his ship up higher, and tests out its steering by putting it into a series of slow loops.

Dey's rubbing hand slows, and traces curious fingers over the offending area on his chest again. He moves his fingers slowly; slower and slower as the pain fades to a dull ache, his eyes fixed on the Milano twisting and his fingers is descending down his uniform in imitation of the ship's movement and then he knows.

He knows. Well to be completely accurate he mainly suspects rather than one hundred per cent _knows_, but a lack of concrete evidence has never meant that something doesn't exist and isn't truthful.

Dey sighs and, his eyes fixed firmly on the blazing ship swimming in the sky, he runs his fingertips over the fresh slash of red rank branded into his uniform.

His movements are still slow but are now more considered, this time in complete contrast to the jagged shapes being thrown by the ship. Dey then traces his new rank's rectangular shape once more, just once, before lowering his arms carefully to his side.

His arms remain straight and his fists stay unclenched, but both are battles.

Dey was promoted to Denarian the day after the battle, and he's still not certain of it.

Yes it means more money and the ability to delegate, a perk of rank everyone enjoys to a degree, but the title doesn't yet sit easy on him.

…yet.

Time, Dey considers; that must be all he needs. Time. Time to accept it and to adjust to it.

Time to come to terms with his promotion ceremony being a brief event in a sparse hall with a smattering of half-focused guests, instead of the usual grandiose affair that's drawn criticism for bloated opulence on more than one occasion.

Time to fully believe that he was promoted both because of his exemplary long-standing service as well as his courageous, incisive and life-saving actions under critical pressure during extreme circumstances.

Time to stop thinking ash grey thoughts that his promotion was a knee-jerk battlefield one, and that Nova Prime mainly shunted him into this rank because there are now so many Nova dead and so many positions gaping wide open that it hurts even to think about it. That she promoted him because she realised it would boost troop morale, and would give her something positive to report to the world.

That Dey's abilities and desires were held back in fourth and fifth positions, and that he's considered more style over substance.

Dey swallows dryly, and forces himself to stop overanalysing things. If he'd overanalysed Quill's message then they'd all be dead, wouldn't they, since the logic in Quill's words could have been torn apart easily. Like paper people. Like a dead leaf upon a rotten plant.

Like Saal was going to do before Nova Prime dismissed his objections and ordered him to his death.

No _not_ to his death Dey corrects himself angrily, as he swallows again and takes a deep breath. In through the nose out through the mouth, another random nugget of biological information that springs up unbidden. Something about the air being cleansed better by the nose than the mouth, but Dey also remembers the medic that told him this one night was drunk so he doesn't know how true it is. Or how such a person retained their job despite smelling like a brewery, but this is a pointless thought to be having right about now.

The Milano is now corkscrewing with greater speed, arching higher and higher. Dey can only imagine the words Quill's crewmates are yelling at him, in amongst their promises never to board his ship again first.

All Nova Prime did was her duty, which was to order a Nova Corps Officer to do their job. She couldn't know the power of the infinity stone, and that it would engulf the blockade and crush and burn and kill thousands before their very eyes.

Dey sighs again, and wonders if her sleep is disturbed the same way his is.

If it _is _then she won't be pleased; she'll be annoyed that there's still an influence over her, despite the fact that it's not surprising and that she won't be alone. She'll be irritated, and she'll snap. She'll swear.

She'll swear _loudly_.

Nova Prime swears openly anyway, practically daily, and Dey's learnt words from her that he sometimes wishes he hadn't. Some think such behaviour is unbecoming of her position, but Dey disagrees; instead he sees it as one of the pinnacles of self-confidence and self-assurance. Something to not exactly be…proud of, but something not to feel uncomfortable about either. Something not to dwell too negatively over.

And that's how Dey likes to think he was when he relayed Quill's message of help to Nova Prime. Dey didn't exactly _want_ to say the D-word out loud, but adrenaline and world ending circumstances required Quill's words to be repeated exactly. And Dey was sure he had made it _quite_ clear to Nova Prime that the use of such a word was _not_ his choice to begin with. It was Quill's word, not his.

Dey wonders briefly why people swear in the first place, but this is another pointless thought and he really should be concentrating on more important things.

Except that Dey also doesn't know why Saal only ever said 'A-Hole' instead of the full word out loud, and now he never will.

There's another bite of pain near his shoulder at that and, in response, Dey clenches his right fist and punches the area once, twice and then stamps his foot heavily on the floor, wishing he hadn't and hoping no-one has seen.

Any more physical outbursts and he'll be forced to take those counselling sessions for sure, he knows he will.

He's so far been able to fight off the insistent invitations being offered to everyone by the medics, but Dey's not sure he can stand up to one of the particularly eager Psychologists he knows are scampering about looking for patients to treat.

So Dey tries to calm himself again and wait for his pulse to stumble down _again _after another one of its forced marches up.

The Milano has now steadied and is flying true, flying faster now; a spark of orange and blue and silver flying towards the trilogy of suns that burn in the distance.

Protocols state that Quill should communicate his intention to leave the planet's surface with a Nova Flight Coordinator, but Dey suspects that the only voices Quill will make an effort to listen to are pre-recorded ones on his music tape.

When the Milano was more or less rebuilt from scratch, the Chief Engineer had raised a valid objection to the length of time and resources it would take to duplicate the ancient music system they'd found warped inside. But his arguments had been overruled, and the cassette player had been restored to prime condition.

During the ship's restoration a Technician had found a ripped parcel in a battered storage drawer, with a cassette tape's black innards spilling out. After fixing the tape the repair shift had put it in the player and pressed start, and listened to a minute of the first song before pressing stop, confident that both tape and player now worked better than before.

The agreement that there was no need to pry any further into Quill's personal possession was silent. However out loud everyone criticised his terrible music taste and the general awfulness of Terran singers, and how listening to any more of that screeching would be a punishment tantamount to torture.

They'd then perfectly duplicated the parcel's paper, rewound the tape, wrapped it up and placed it back in the drawer with a reverence reserved for the dead.

Alongside the tape they'd also found a piece of paper in an envelope which had somehow, miraculously, been completely undamaged.

Dey had been inspecting the Milano's progress when Quill's letter was found by a Junior Technician, and he'd immediately snatched it out of her hand. Before she could object, Dey had explained that he needed to check that it didn't contain anything illegal, and that also, you know, some of Quill's personal effects were of an _adult_ nature not suitable to be read by everyone, and he was just sparing her an ordeal.

The Technician had then scrunched up her face and sworn at him in a way both Nova Prime and Quill would have been proud of, before marching off to badmouth him in mutters to her colleagues.

Dey had then retreated to a corner of the half-rebuilt ship to read the letter, after first making a mental note to think about reporting her later.

Dey had read those hand written words only once, before folding the paper back in half and slotting it carefully into its envelope. He'd then stood there for a beat; for two, three, more than he can remember beats of his heart, Quill's letter held lightly in his hand and his gaze on something distant.

He'd then snapped back to the present and announced to everyone in earshot that he'd be holding onto this letter for safekeeping until the ship's repairs were completed. The Junior Technician had scowled and everyone else had shrugged or nodded or given no indication that they'd heard him, before he left the ship and everyone else had returned to work.

Dey had kept the letter in his locked office drawer until just under an hour ago, when he'd replaced the letter back on the ship into its rightful place. Dey had never read the letter again, and he'd never told anyone else about it. He'd behaved properly, like a Nova Corps Officer should. Like an all-round decent _person_ should.

…he'd behaved like a gentleman should.

Dey allows himself another crooked smile at that, as he watches the Milano burn confidently through the planet's atmosphere.

But then _a__nother_ piece of pointless information slides effortlessly into his head and, like the previous biological ones, it's not entirely welcome.

One of Dey's old literacy teachers had once recited a quote from one of his favourite Terran authors, which was 'A _gentleman_ is someone who does not what he wants to do, but what he should do.'

Dey shuffles slightly where he stands, and squints unnecessarily into the sky.

What Dey should do now is to ensure that all procedures have been followed and that the Milano's flight plan has been correctly logged. He should return to his duties and begin to establish ways in which the Guardians can be safely monitored and contacted. He should put all personal thoughts of restaurants and plants and life being too short out of his mind. He should focus on his work, and the extra responsibilities and gravitas his promotion demands.

Quill's ship is now just a bright speck in the distance, and there's no sign that there's a squadron of trigger happy Nova pilots hot on their tail.

What Dey _wants_ to do now is to go home. To pick up his silver briefcase and head home to see his wife and daughter, since he knows that he's so so lucky to still have them. He wants to delegate some tasks to the first officer he sees, and prove to himself that his new rank will be worth it.

The Milano has now safely left Xandarian space, and Dey finally turns around to head back indoors.

Dey's strides start off slowly but then quickly increase in pace. His legs and arms march him purposefully along corridors and halls and through doors, as his heart pumps and the thoughts in his mind slot into position.

'Nova Officer _stop!_' Dey barks, as he finally spots an officer he can hail.

The startled officer turns abruptly at the order and, with a dull pang, Dey knows that he's not completely gentlemanlike after all.

With a swallow Dey stops, and thinks about his posture. He puts his shoulders back, lifts his chin and thrusts his chest out forward.

'You will-…I need you to-…I'd like you to…' Dey takes a deep breath, composing himself. He modulates his voice and remembers who he is. '…please can you check the Milano's flight plan and communications channel for me? My family, they…I… look I know I'm still _tech_nically on duty, and I don't mean to get out of line and pull rank on you and all, but if you… if you have the time to do this for me, then I'd really appreciate it. Really. …and I promise to cover your next graveyard shift. Or any other awful shift you really don't want to do but have to do, because you're a good person and you still like your job.'

With a smile the officer agrees to the trade immediately, and Dey sags into the knowledge that he's not completely self-centred after all.

And then, with a pleasant jolt that makes him stand up straighter, Dey realises that this unknown officer has recognised him. Has recognised him for what he's done and who he is and, well, given the look on the officer's face and the way he's standing he…he respects Dey. Despite only knowing him from afar, Dey is respected.

Which is nice.

Which is very nice indeed.

It's nice and new and unexpected and unsettling in a slightly strange good way, and Dey feels some of the scratching hours of lost sleep wiped clean from his slate.

Dey smiles, and remembers the look on Quill's face when Dey had told him that his family was alive because of him.

The officer gives Dey a warm salute and turns purposefully, heading off towards the communications room.

Dey's smile widen, and can't stop himself from thinking that Quill would be proud of him.

Dey may not be a complete gentleman, but he's not a complete dick either.

It looks like he's a bit of both, which is probably the best thing that he can be.

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><p><strong>AN: The Terran author mentioned was Haruki Murakami, and the quote was from his book Norwegian Wood.<strong>

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